Armed with my Maine atlas, digital camera and CD of “America’s Favorite Hits,” I headed east yesterday to enjoy the beauties of Dayton on a spring Sunday. Everywhere I looked, dandelions dotted the lush green of rolling hills and pastures, most of them ripe and full-on yellow, and others already at the fluffy, white seed stage, ready to be wished upon and exhaled away. Birds frolicked among the many stands of trees I passed, with an occasional robin scurrying across the low grass in search of worms.

Robins find worms by listening for the tiny scratchings these creatures make as they emerge from the soil. Watch a robin some time, and you will see it eyeing its meal, tilting its pretty head first one way, then another, as it prepares to pounce.

Years ago, a cousin of mine showed me a place on the Buzzell Road where hickory nut trees grew. We spent a few summery occasions back then gathering the nuts, he, tossing rocks and branches up to knock them down and I scrambling around picking up the plump husks that have always reminded me of miniature green pumpkins. I noticed yesterday that the trees are still there, as they are easy to recognize among others whose bark doesn’t peel off in large strips like the hickory’s. Hence its nickname, shagbark. The nut-meats are sweet with a flavor and texture somewhat reminiscent of pecans, but it takes a lot of them to make it count, and they are very difficult to crack without demolishing what little meat they contain. The yellow-green outer husks are thick and leathery and their sections separate readily when the nuts are ripe, revealing small rock-hard shells that rarely exceed an inch in length at best. Cracking them is a true exercise in patience and perseverance and is best done once the they’ve been allowed to cure in a dark, warm, dry place for a few days.

The shagbark hickory is found from the southern end of Mexico to the northernmost reaches of eastern Canada and west as far as Montana, Texas and all the states in between. Its natural range is not quite as large, but it’s believed to be extending due to deliberate plantings in some areas and an increased tolerance among its species to extreme winter temperatures. Left undisturbed, it can grow to 120 feet, its tall straight trunk sometimes dominating a lower canopy of younger pines and other deciduous trees. American Indians and early colonists prized the nuts, harvesting thousands of them to be eaten out of the shell, ground into meal for bread-baking, or boiled to create hickory milk.

Farther on along the Buzzell Road, one comes upon Harris Farms, a family-owned enterprise that’s been there for years and that is best known for its annual crop of sweet corn. They also sell their own milk and grass-fed beef and veal, and their spectacular acreage alone makes the drive worthwhile. The land slopes dramatically away from the farm itself, with small knolls of different shades of green layered one against the other in the distance. With bird song as a backdrop, one could find a worse place to be on a spring afternoon.

No trip along that section of road would be complete without a stop at Cold Water Brook, a small but lively stream that runs east just before the Gould Road intersection. It passes under the road and exits through a large culvert pipe where it widens and continues upon its meandering way through the thick growth. It’s been a water source for the locals for years, and I can remember an uncle driving all the way there from Hollis Center in the 1940s and 1950s to get his week’s supply of fresh water, which my aunt kept in small galvanized tubs on the kitchen counter. Back before brook water became unsafe to drink, getting a drink at his and my aunt’s house meant using a dipper and not turning on a faucet, as they lived for years without plumbing of any kind.

As my visit finally came to an end, I headed toward Route 35 and backtracked my CD player to my favorite America song ”“ “Ventura Highway.” Of course, this wasn’t California, and I wasn’t “waitin’ for the early train,” nor did I see “alligator lizards in the air.” But the free wind was blowin’ through my hair, and the day was all about the daylight, and from what I’ve come to know of this kind of country, it does look good in the snow, and the nights are indeed “stronger than moonshine.”

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Springvale, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@yahoo.com.